


Things Unsaid

by battle_cat



Series: Together [18]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Cunnilingus, F/M, Furiosa is the most eaten out character in fandom history, Haircuts, Introspection, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Reunion Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-06 04:17:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8734591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battle_cat/pseuds/battle_cat
Summary: They have slipped back into their old rhythms as if he hadn’t been gone at all, moving around and against each other as if they were made to work together, and a part of her is enormously, unspeakably grateful for that. Another part feels like this must be a trap, that getting used to having him here again will only make it hurt more the next time he leaves.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a mini-series of fics that includes [Provisions](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8558218), [Lost and Found](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8334181), and Chapter 1 of [Perigee](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7476900/chapters/16992057).
> 
> Based on YoukaiYume's smutty art.

Furiosa wakes up to Max snoring into the pillow next to her, his arm draped casually over her ribcage.

She doesn’t dare move. She lies staring up at the rectangle of dawn light creeping across the ceiling, letting herself believe that this is real.

For the past fifty-seven days, she’d woken up alone. She’d assumed she would eventually grow used to it, the way she’d grown used to Max’s weight and warmth beside her on the mattress, to smelling his scent on the sheets. But every morning the pang had been fresh and sharp, and she’d shoved it aside as she washed and dressed and then went out into the Citadel to attack problems that had solutions.

And now he’s back, sleeping beside her in the same spot against the wall, as if he never left, the pleasant ache of last night’s sex between her legs. This is what she wanted. Why is she so terrified?

 

He had fled when Dag’s baby was born and come back nearly two moon cycles later, thinner and hairier and with a rattle in the engine of the bike that hadn’t been his to take. She’d thought that perhaps she would be angry at him but all she’d been filled with was desperate want. They’d barely gotten the door closed before they were fucking against the wall.

They’d gone to the baths after their frantic coupling, and he’d scrubbed himself clean with her help, and then they couldn’t stand it and were fucking again on the wet stone floor by the pool, his arms tight around her while she ground down on top of him, uncaring about the way her knees and elbows scraped against the rock.

By the time they had cleaned off again after _that,_ they were both slow and clumsy with exhaustion, and they’d crawled into her bed in half-damp sleep clothes and fallen asleep curled around each other. And now she’s lying awake in the morning light with Max slumbering next to her, trying to breathe through the inexplicable ache in her chest.

He snorts and wakes up with a muted snuffle—sudden, but not the panic-stricken scramble of his nightmares. When she turns to look at him he’s blinking in sleepy confusion. The side of his hair that had been against the pillow sticks up in shapes she didn’t know human hair could make.

She laughs before she can stop herself. “Nnh?” he inquires, and it makes her downright _giggle_. He looks bemused but vaguely pleased.

“You need a haircut.” She tries to smooth down some of the standing-up bits of hair, with negligible success.

“Mm. Shave too.” He runs his hand over the weeks of beard growth on his chin.

“Can I…?”

He nods.

 

In her Imperator days she could use the Citadel’s meager electric grid whenever she wanted, but now it’s turned off in the residential areas from sunrise to sunset, the extra capacity directed to where it’s most needed in the Citadel’s infrastructure instead of to those who have the highest rank.

She doesn’t mind using the old straight razor instead of the electric clippers, though; she is skilled at manipulating it with one hand after years of practice, and there is something nice about going a bit slower.

Max sits on the edge of the bench, a sheet laid out on the floor beneath him, and lets her work soap into his whiskers. She is very careful when she touches the blade to his skin—she knows exactly how sharp she keeps it—but he seems completely unfazed by the deadly weapon in her hand so close to his face and throat. Whenever she looks up from her work she catches him watching her with such simple, unselfconscious fondness that she has to look away again immediately.

They’ve said barely twenty words to each other since he came up on the lift. She cannot ask him about the baby, about why Dag’s childbirth sent him scrambling into the wastes with blank terror in his eyes…although she has a reasonable-enough guess. She cannot tell him about the dream she had, where she said she needed him. She cannot ask how long he’ll stay.

They have slipped back into their old rhythms as if he hadn’t been gone at all, moving around and against each other as if they were made to work together, and a part of her is enormously, unspeakably grateful for that. Another part feels like this must be a trap, that getting used to having him here again will only make it hurt more the next time he leaves. Because there will be a next time; she is sure of it even if he intends otherwise.

His cheeks are clean, the skin improbably smooth. She wipes the last bits of soap off his face with the washing cloth, and then she gets caught up in tracing her thumb along his jawline and over his bottom lip.

He’s watching her again.

“Turn around,” she says. “I’ll do your hair.”

He spins around on the bench so he’s sitting with his back to her.

When his hair isn’t crusted with grime it’s thick and soft. She likes the way it feels under her hand. It’s easy enough to trim the unruly bits one-handed by catching them between her thumb and the blade, her half-arm resting on his bare shoulder. She leaves enough length to run her fingers through, wiping the shorn bits from his neck and shoulders with the cloth. It still sticks up a bit in the back, but…she thinks she's grown to like that.

“Done,” she says softly, reaching out to brush a stray bit of hair off his forehead. He catches her hand, shifts again so he’s sitting with his back against the table. His other hand is on her waist, warm through the thin fabric of her sleep shirt. He urges her closer and she finds herself climbing into his lap, kneeling on the bench with her legs straddling his, her hand back in his freshly-cut hair.

He kisses her, tilting up just slightly to meet her lips. His hands stroke over her back, steady and strong and grounding. He kisses her jaw, her throat when her head tips back without her input, each press of his lips slow and deliberate. His breath is warm against her shoulder as his mouth traces the line of her clavicle.

Last night they’d been frenzied, but now he moves with such soft gentle intent, sliding her shirt up just enough to duck his head down and brush his lips against the underside of her breast. She arches and rocks back, feeling the strength in his arms as he compensates for the change in position. Then her top is gone entirely, discarded on the floor, and his mouth is on her nipple, a slow, hard flick of his tongue striking a spark inside her. Her hips rock against his. “Fuck,” she breathes at a soft scrape of his teeth. 

He’s back to kissing her neck, his hands skimming over her back, and she presses close against him, buries her face against his shoulder and breathes in the scent of his skin, sweat and a trace of soap from the baths and a note of the particular sharp musk she associates with him. _I missed you._ The words lodge like a notched blade under her diaphragm, too painful to say.

Her hips are still moving, rocking against the growing bulge in his shorts while she can feel wetness soaking through hers. She can’t seem to do anything but press herself into the warmth of his mouth and his hands and his skin, so she’s grateful when he nudges her to stand up, strips off both their shorts in between brief heady open-mouthed kisses. His hands are on her hips, guiding her back to sit on the bench, and when he gets down on his knees she hears a joint pop, but he seems entirely focused on her face.

He is looking up at her, his lips reddened from kissing, his hair a mess from how much she’s played with it, something earnest and open and searching on his face. She doesn’t know what to do so she just gives him a soft smile, and maybe that’s what he wants, because he ducks down to kiss her stomach. She lets her legs open when he puts a gentle hand on her thigh, tilts her hips to give him more access as his mouth moves lower.

She thinks, maybe, he is trying to apologize.

She moans at the first long, firm swipe of his tongue against her cunt, grabs the edge of the bench when he does it again. He is not hesitant—not in the least—but he is _slow,_ searching out her most sensitive spots and then backing away, teasing until her legs shake, until she just surrenders, trusting him to rock her closer and closer to the edge.

When she comes she can’t help being loud, can’t help curling up around where he’s sucking hard and steady on her clit, sending wave after wave of pleasure through her. She grips a handful of his hair roughly enough to hurt but he doesn’t even seem to notice.

For an unmoored moment she leans back against the table, panting and sweaty. When she’s next aware of something it’s Max putting a hand on her back. She gropes in the general direction of where he’s sitting on the bench, finds a solid thigh.

“Come. Bed.” She’s not great at walking at the moment but he holds her steady until they both crumple onto the mattress.

She’s still dizzy and uncoordinated, but she prods him with enough limbs that he gets the message to climb on top of her. “Wanna fuck you now.” She hooks her legs loosely over his.

“Mm. Not sore?” She shakes her head no, even though she is a little. She doesn’t care, wants to feel him inside her, and she gives an approving hum when he sinks into her, hot and thick and just on the right side of an uncomfortable ache.

He’s moving slowly, trying to be gentle. “Come on, now,” she hisses, wrapping her legs tighter around him, and he smiles and then gives a short, hard thrust that makes her gasp. She wants to say _Yes_ but she doesn’t have the breath for it, just nods desperately as he starts moving. It’s equal parts too much and delicious, every jerk of his hips driving a little raw noise out of her, and it’s exactly what she wants. She bucks up to meet him and squeezes down around his cock inside her until the controlled rhythm stutters out into needy little twitches and he’s coming with his face pressed against her shoulder.

They’re both still a moment, catching their breath. She wraps herself as tight around him as she can, as if her body is enough to keep him here.

Eventually he rearranges himself to lie curled against her on his side, his head on her shoulder.

The daylight coming in the window is bright and hot now. They should go down to the mess hall and get breakfast before serving hours are over. They should wash and dress and start the day. They should…

Max has fallen asleep on her shoulder, and she’s halfway there herself. And sleeping for another hour or two is so much simpler than trying to pick through the barbed-wire knot of feelings in her chest. So she lets herself drift off again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by another [YoukaiYume smutty art.](http://youkaiyume.tumblr.com/post/169949183958/this-was-a-smut-prompt-for-smuttyartfictrade)

He wakes up in Furiosa’s bed, feeling heavy and stiff in the way that means he’s slept, really _slept,_ not the shallow dozing that passes for sleep in the Wasteland. It’s late morning, judging by the light, and he’s alone, the corridor quiet outside the door.

He rolls over and the blankets still smell like sex, like her. He can taste her in the corners of his mouth, smell her when he brings his fingers close to his face. It’s like a knife in the ribs.

He wants her. He wants her _so much,_ and the roar of it had swamped him from the moment she pressed her forehead against his. On his long meandering way back to the Citadel he had tried to prepare himself for every scenario he could stomach: her anger or her coldness, her having moved on to someone else. (The other possibilities, the stories that ended with her dead in battle or the Citadel overthrown, those he sealed away tightly; they were volatile as dynamite.) But then she had been right there, alive and real and _wanting him too,_ and it was impossible to think of anything else.

He had only known two kinds of wanting, since the world fell. There was the kind that wasn’t really wanting at all, but you had nothing else to barter so you dredged up enough dusty shards of memory to get hard or get them off. It wasn’t pretty but you can’t run a V8 on dignity.

Then there was the kind that came tangled in the gutshot agony of dreams, jolting him awake out of hazy memories of clean sheets and the murmur of waves and Jessie, smiling; Jessie’s face, bright-eyed and laughing surrounded by the corona of her hair; the Old World smoothness of her naked body; her breathy sighs and the way she bit her lip when he did something she particularly liked. That was the kind of want that came with wet cheeks and a low, rotten ache that his own hand only barely satisfied.

But this…this was different.

He’d forgotten, and he hadn’t even realized _how much_ he’d forgotten until she’d blown him open like a thrown grenade. He’d forgotten what it was like to want someone you could have, someone who was flesh and blood, slickness and sweat, instead of an aching memory. Someone who wanted you back.

He’d forgotten sly smiles and hidden touches under the table, watching her work in the garage until lust was a physical ache in his groin, the way simple things like her deft fingers assembling a rifle could drive him out of his mind. He’d forgotten the thrill of learning a new lover’s body, teasing out what made her moan, slipping his fingers between her thighs and feeling her soaked for him. Fucking just because it felt good, because it was one of the few pleasures left in the world, because it was nice to be close to someone in that way.

He’d forgotten unguarded sleep tangled up in someone else’s limbs, breathing in the same rhythm, waking up in a bed that felt like safety.

He’d forgotten, and she, he is reasonably sure, had never known.

The worst part, the very worst part, was how _easy_ it was, not to think of anything else when she was around, to fall in with her rhythms during the day and get lost in her body at night. It was so easy to feel good, to let his guard down, that he wasn’t braced for the inevitable crash. Like the day there was a baby, a baby and its gutting newborn cries, and with a catastrophic lurch he was suddenly very much not okay.

He’d fled, and when blind panic finally gave way to bitter shame, he was nearly out of supplies and so far from the Citadel he didn’t recognize the territory. It had taken weeks to find familiar landmarks again, and weeks more after that to convince himself to actually turn in the direction that would lead him back here.

And now he is back in Furiosa’s bed, the evidence of her enthusiastic welcome still crusted in the creases of his fingers, and most of him is just terrifyingly relieved, and sated in a way he’d forgotten he could have.

She hadn’t been angry. She hadn’t asked why he had run. She had fucking _packed_ for him. And he can’t help thinking that it’s because running is what she expects of him. It should feel like acceptance, but instead the guilt curdles in his stomach.

He is not reliable, and if he were halfway decent he would at least stop wanting her so much. But he can’t. He is thoroughly, utterly, one hundred percent fucked on that count.

 

Eventually he makes his way down to the garage, and she is there, greeting him with a soft smile, and they spend a companionable day working on the latest salvage. (He watches her climb up onto the roof of the new rig, and without warning the angle of her hip makes him wonder if she’s flexible enough to get her feet up on his shoulders when they're fucking, and he has to retreat under the car he’s working on for a while.)

And then it’s dark and they’re back in her room, deliciously, luxuriantly naked on top of her disheveled bedding, the lamplight turning her body into a landscape of golden curves and enticing shadows.

It’s still deliciously novel, so much skin against skin after weeks of sleeping in everything he had, and he’s taking his time to savor it. It’s not like he could ever forget her—he’d tried, _fucking hell_ he’d tried after he left her bloody and triumphant on the lift—but now he is retracing every line of her like a well-worn talisman. The way the curve of her breast sits in his hand. The arch of her neck as his mouth moves down it. The tiny bit of softness in her lower belly; the taut curve of her ass and the tender, untanned flesh on the inside of her thighs. She is already embedded in his psyche and every touch just etches the lines deeper; he will never disentangle himself now—

She nips impatiently at his bottom lip and he realizes he’s gotten lost in just running his hands over her skin. She is not interested in savoring. She presses against him hot and urgent, leaving a wet smear when she grinds on his thigh. She is more than ready—they both are—and doing anything other than burying himself inside her is just teasing them both—

He flips her, rolling her onto her side with her back toward him. In this position she barely needs to open her legs for him to get inside, but she hooks a heel over the calf of his good leg anyway. She is slick and hot when he rubs the head of his cock against her; it never ceases to be a thrill. He enters her in a long, slow slide that makes them both groan.

He wants nothing more than to fang it, and by the way she arches and squirms she does too, but he forces himself to go slow, keeping both of them on the ragged edge as long as he can bear it. Her patience snaps first, an unequivocal grip on his wrist dragging his hand down to her clit, and almost as soon as he touches her her legs are shaking, and when her cunt clenches down around him it’s all over; his hips jerk and he’s coming before she’s even stopped shuddering.

When he can breathe again he slides out of her, but his hand is still between her legs and she rocks up against it, tilting her hips so she is sprawled out on her back, spread open for him. “Keep touching me,” she sighs, and so he does, fingers soaked with both their juices trailing lightly over her sensitive clit, sliding down to stroke over her labia and just the tiniest bit inside. He’s not even particularly concentrating on trying to make her come, just drinking in the soft encouraging _ohhs_ and _ahhs_ she makes now and then. He makes the mistake of looking at her, laid out beside him, sweaty and wantonly pleased, and she catches his gaze and gives him a blissed-out, trusting smile, and—fuck. He twists around her, leaning down to mouth at the spot between her breasts, because he absolutely cannot look at her without something painful clawing at his chest.

She’s getting revved up again, her hips twitching against his hand. Her fingers are in his hair, and he focuses his touch more tightly on her clit, chasing her little gasps of _oh yeah_ and _fuck_ and _mmnf_ and _there there there—_

She comes with a long shuddering noise, her grip on his hair clenching eye-wateringly tight. He keeps touching her, riding the wave until she’s whimpering and pushes his hand away.

She doesn’t say anything, just rearranges herself to curl tightly around him, the way she did last night, both of them sticky and gasping. She draws a hitching breath that isn’t a sob, but shaky enough that he pulls back to hum a question.

“I—” she begins, and then breaks off. Her gaze drops away from his face. After a moment she whispers, “Nothing.”

She burrows against him, and he wraps his arms around her, sweat and fluids slowly cooling between them.

There are things he can’t put into words, about how she’s his better half, about how she deserves all the good things, so much more than he can offer, about how she shatters him and puts him back together at the same time. He can’t say these things, not tonight and maybe never. He hopes, somehow, she knows.


End file.
